Mistaken Identity
by AmanitaMuscaria
Summary: Severus has plans for Harry. Somewhat altered to allow further chapters. WARNINGS - chan, underage sex, non-con, please don't go here if you don't like these things! They're not mine; I just take them out and play with them. I clean them off when I'm done
1. Mistaken Identity

Mistaken Identity

From the moment he laid eyes on the boy, he did not like him. Let everyone else fawn over Potter. He would treat him like he'd treat any other student. But he wasn't, was he? He wasn't any other student. Oh, no. He was Harry James Potter, Gryffindor Golden Boy, goodness personified, the Wizarding World's saviour. And James Potter's son. He looked just like James. The hair, so artfully disarranged. The ease with which he drew people to him. The guileless expression, hiding all the devilry behind that innocent facade. And everyone else was taken in. That air of having the world at his feet, of knowing he just had to snap his fingers, and all would come to him. Without trying, without effort. No struggle for him. No waiting, watching, hoping in the shadows. No desperate embarrassment when he said the wrong thing, made the wrong choice, looked -just -wrong.

This boy would never look on as others took what should have been, should be, his. So. Like any other student. And then some.

The detention, to be served under himself, not Filch, would be the first of many, Severus promised himself. After all, it was ridiculously easy to make Potter lose his temper, or get so embarrassed he made the most elementary mistakes in class. It was almost too easy. This boy - _this boy_ - was to defeat The Dark Lord? It was ludicrous; Dumbledore had to be hiding something else. There must be some other plan, something else the Headmaster hadn't told him. The boy was - well, perhaps not imbecilic, like the Longbottom fool, but surely nothing special. And he certainly had no magic that could have any impact on his Dark Master. There was no great power there.

Severus set the boy a potion when he arrived for the detention. The scribbled instructions on the board were deliberately ambiguous, the procedure unclear.

"Sir?"

"What is it, boy?"

"The second line, sir - is that - um - aconite?"

"Can you not read?"

He strode over to the bench he'd set the boy at, directly below his desk, right under his eye.

Close behind the boy, his head by the boy's, he looked up at the board, and whispered directly into Potter's ear, "Strange, it appears to state acacia to me, quite clearly."

Potter blushed red, flinching from the closeness of the Professor, the warmth of the body so near.

"Um, sorry, sir. I couldn't read it."

He moved away from the boy; it was much too soon to go further. He circled the room, keeping a close eye on Potter's fumbling attempts at the potion. The smell of the potion was musky, heavy. Severus wondered if the boy would identify the scent. Surely the boy would recognise that scent from his sheets in the mornings, if from nothing else? He smiled to himself. Even if the boy didn't consciously identify it, Severus could enjoy it.

When the boy was flushed, his black hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, peering desperately up at the instructions as though they could save the mess in the cauldron, he slid behind the boy again, placing a hand to either side of Potter's on the workbench. The boy whimpered, and pressed himself closer to the bench, away from the dark enveloping circle and heat of the Potions Master's body.

"That doesn't look right, Potter."

"N-no, sir."

"Perhaps you should start again."

"I can't follow the instructions on the board, sir."

"Do you not know how to read? That may explain quite a lot of your difficulties."

"Yes - I mean no! But - they - they're not right, sir?"

His cheek was brushed by the boy's soft hair - he had but to turn so very slightly to allow his lips to ghost over the boy's ear.

"Are you telling me you know better than me?" he murmured softly into that ear, feeling it tremble under his feather touch.

"No, sir! But - the instructions, sir!"

"Yes, Potter? Can you not follow instructions? I must say, I have never seen any evidence that you could, but I can always hope that I might be wrong. Am I wrong, Mr. Potter?"

"No - that is, yes - I don't know, sir."

"No. You don't know."

With a flick of his wand, he got rid of the stuff in the cauldron.

"Start again, Potter. You didn't expect me to accept that mess, did you?"

"No, sir," the boy said in a small voice.

The scurry, like a mouse, to gather more ingredients, made him smile. Severus had chosen a potion - well, something like a potion - that would use only the most common, the cheapest materials. He certainly wasn't going to waste good ingredients on the Potter brat. Not for this little - exercise.

Hunched over the cauldron, peering up at the board - if the boy had the slightest knowledge of potions, a first-year's knowledge, he would realise that what he was doing was complete nonsense. But of course, this was Harry James Potter. Why should he bother to learn anything as mundane as potions? Why should he retain anything he'd learnt, or not, from the previous year?

Severus sneered, watching the boy mangle the gurdyroot, his hands trembling. He smirked to himself, swept behind the boy again.

"Having problems again, Potter?"

The root, looking suggestively pink and naked in the boy's hand, slipped, and the knife slid into the boy's finger.

"Oh- "

"Foolish boy! Don't put your hand in your mouth!"

Severus' hand shot out to seize the boy's before the finger could disappear into that little sad downturned pucker. Holding Potter's bleeding hand, altogether too close to the boy for Potter's comfort, he drew his wand and stroked the tip across Potter's palm slowly, suggestively. Potter's eyes bulged out.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Are you - what are you doing?"

He moved forward just a little more, so his groin brushed against the boy's hip. Just the merest touch.

"Why, I am ensuring that the gurdyroot has not damaged your hand, before healing it, Mr. Potter."

Sliding his wand tip across the boy's palm sensuously thrice more, he healed the cut. The boy shivered, his breath coming in little gasps.

"You have gotten blood all over your robes, Mr. Potter. I suggest you remove them, before you contaminate your potion further."

The boy shot him a confused, frightened glance, but pulled the robes over his head readily enough. The clothes beneath were - dreadful. Much too large, the boy was almost lost in the t-shirt, and the only thing stopping the trousers falling down was a worn belt that ruched the material in great folds around the boy's middle. Severus supposed it was some form of Muggle fashion.

"Continue with your potion."

He swept away to consider his next move, quite enjoying himself. Sweating and confused, Potter looked at the gurdyroot in his hand and flushed a deeper red. Severus observed the swift glance the boy gave him, before the tousled head bent to continue the slicing of the obscene looking root.

"Do not fondle your gurdyroot, Potter. That is not required for the preparation," he said silkily, merely to enjoy the sight of more blood rushing up to Potter's face.

The boy couldn't look up this time; the undercurrents of the session appeared to have finally penetrated the boy's obtuseness. Severus stared at the boy until he had to raise his eyes, to briefly look, bewildered, frightened, and - something else? into the Potions Master's heated black eyes. He smirked before Potter could drop his gaze. The boy's eyes widened before he hid behind the silly fringe of hair. But of course, he would have to look up, to see the instructions on the board. Severus sat and waited, unable to stop smirking even if he'd wished to, his eyes hot and triumphant on the boy's bowed head.

He was moving to scrape the sliced root into the mess, and then he'd have to look up. Severus's groin twitched and he stirred sensuously on the chair, adjusting himself to loosen the restrictive fabric beneath his robes. The boy jerked his head up, startled at the movement, and Severus allowed himself a long, slow caress as he met Potter's eyes. The boy's lips were parted, and he could think of several excellent things he might do with those lips, that mouth. Potter's eyes looked glazed, his brow was sweaty as he dropped his gaze again.

Severus stood, adjusting his robes, sweeping round to the side of Potter's workbench.

The boy wheeled round to face him, and he made that slight gesture, performing the wordless spell that caused the worn belt to part, and Potter's too-large trousers to descend to his ankles. Severus swiftly closed the gap between them, his hand moved to the boy's groin like a snake striking, filling his hand with the bulge tenting the boy's underpants, noting the wetness on the material leaking from the boy's prickhead.

"Is this why you're having so much trouble with the potion, Potter?" he hissed, holding the boy to him with one hand while stroking and squeezing with the other.

"Are you having inappropriate thoughts while you should be concentrating on your work?" his hand dove in to the underwear, to touch the boy's hot erect length, to pull and twist as the boy whined and pushed against Severus's swollen cock, fighting and inviting in equal measure. Severus stared down at the beautiful young cock in his hand, alabaster against his sallow, stained fingers, the head emerging pink from the hood of the foreskin.

"How very naughty, and shameful for you, Potter. What do you think would happen if I were to tell the class that you'd gotten hard in my detention, hmmm?"

"Oh - no - please -"

The boy was gasping and thrusting, trying to pull away at the same time.

"Shall I tell your Mr. Weasley that you were hard, erect, going to come in my hand, Mr. Potter?"

"No no no no no - please, sir, noooo!"

The boy wasn't far off; Severus ran his thumb over the spongy soft head, sliding his nail into the slit, coating his finger with the clear slippery fluid welling up.

"Oh, please, sir!"

Severus suddenly stopped moving his hand, grasping Potter's penis tight, withholding the ejaculation from the boy. He continued to slide his own member up and down, up and down along Potter's back.

"Oh - what?" the boy had realised that the friction had stopped, and even trying to hump into the Potions Master's fist wasn't producing any result.

He let out a wail, as if that would help.

"What is it, Potter? You were saying no - I thought you wished me to stop," he said silkily, his lips moving on the boy's ear.

"Oh, god, no - please, sir - I can't - "

"What is it? You will have to be clearer."

He was sure his amusement showed in his voice, but he suspected Potter was so far gone, he wouldn't notice, nor know what to make of it, if he did.

"Please, sir - "

"What? You will have to ask for what you want. "

"Please - I want - I -"

The embarrassment covering the boy's face was delicious.

"You will have to say it. I am not a mind reader."

"Please, sir, I want - anything. Just - anything, sir -"

"Anything, Potter?"

His dark heart overflowed with joy at the boy's words; he couldn't have hoped for this - innocence.

"Anything. I need -"

"What do you need?"

Choking on the words, Potter shamefacedly gasped, "I need to come, please."

Severus smiled in victory.

"What would Miss Granger say if she could hear you begging your nasty Potions Master for that? What would Dumbledore say if he could see you now?"

Warming himself on the boy's blushes, he ran his hands over the boy's cock, his balls, his crack and buttocks. Carefully, he slid the rest of the boy's clothing off, looking his fill at the perfect, if slight, body, the thin, straight limbs, the flushed chest, the lovely pink nipples, the smooth straight cock, now wilting under the intense scrutiny of the man.

"Oh, you'll come, all right, Potter. Never fear."

Severus showed his teeth at the delicious young body before him. That gaze, so bewildered, so anxious, so needy and yet not knowing what he'd asked for, what he'd allowed. Delicious, and it was all for him. He would be the first to taste, he would imprint himself on the boy's flesh, in the boy, on his soul. James Potter's son would pay.

"Over the bench, there. Face down."

He really couldn't wait any longer, the pressure in his balls was starting to pain him. He hadn't expected this, he hadn't thought he would get to this point with the boy so soon, otherwise he wouldn't have rubbed himself on the boy so much. But from thoughts of starting the boy on the path, then retiring with fantasies and hand, he'd suddenly found himself at the goal. He wouldn't spoil it, he'd be careful. There were still things that could go very wrong. He'd be cautious, give the boy what he desired. He would not hurt the boy - apart from any other consideration, if he played his part well, he would have the consolation of a Potter serving his sexual needs for the foreseeable future. A young boy he could mould and shape to his requirements, and kick the dust in the dead face of the boy's father while he took his pleasure. His cock gave a very interested throb at the idea, and his balls reminded him he needed to see to his own needs. And, after all, if the boy didn't want this, what did that matter? He hadn't wanted to be tormented by the boy's father, had he? He hadn't asked to be bullied by the boy's godfather, had he? It was all part of the same pattern, the same set of situations, played out, over and over again down the ages. He wasn't responsible for it, he was just participating in the next cycle, the next turn of the wheel. And, if this time, he was doing the hurting instead of being the one who was hurt, well, that was all to the good, wasn't it. That was justice. That was how it worked.

The boy was lying on his front, splayed thin and bony like a boiling fowl.

"No - please, Sir. No." The moans came soft and breathy, not as though the boy believed he would be heard, not as though he believed he could make the man change his mind.

"Open your legs," Severus said harshly, summoning a pot of grease.

He gloried in the sight of Potter obeying the command, exposing his all to the Potions Master's view. His stained fingers scrabbled on the boy's back, his thin buttocks. He scooped some of the unguent onto his fingers and stroked them into the boy's crack, pushing long fingers between the thin cheeks. The boy flinched as he moved over Harry's arsehole, but he kept smoothing the slippery stuff, from the tailbone to the very slightly haired balls, stroking the limp little cock on every pass. He might be wicked, but he was not a monster. He would not breach the boy. At least, not yet.

"Bring your legs together, boy," he growled, parting his robes to finally let his cock's single weeping eye see the goal.

The soft, breathy "No"s kept coming, a quiet background litany to this service of retribution.

Severus covered the boy with his body, bringing his cock to the tight gap between the boy's legs. The heat, the friction was delicious. The small body beneath his writhed and flailed, the "No"'s coming faster, more desperately. He ignored them, and proceeded to slide into the pocket made between the boy's legs, surging forward to bury the end of his prick in the boy's balls. It felt so - complete. He bit at the boy's shoulder, eliciting a high wail.

This was entirely too much, and he shook the bony shoulder harshly.

"Stop whimpering. You are not being hurt. I am not hurting you."

The tousled black head shook, and Severus thrust faster into the slippery heat. The soft, hitching snuffling, the fine tremor of the boy's shoulders were now the only signs of his distress. His hands reached round to the boy's narrow chest, fingers finding the little bumps of nipples already hard. A suspicion crossed his mind, and he slid one hand down the washboard ribs, down the soft belly until he encountered the boy's slender cock. It was erect, hard. He laughed darkly, moving the attentions of his mouth and teeth to the side of the boy's neck, pressing his cock luxuriantly, slowly, fully in so his belly curved round the curve of those skinny buttocks.

"No more protests now? Have you decided that it's not such an awful fate?"

The boy let out a soft moan.

"I don't want this, Sir."

"Well, your cock says otherwise, Potter. How embarrassing for you. Are you finding this exciting? Are you, perhaps, enjoying what your nasty Potions Master is doing to you?"

"No, I'm not, Sir. I'm not, honestly."

"Your cock doesn't lie, boy, no matter what your mouth does."

This was delicious. Even better than forcing the boy, this was unforeseen, unimaginable. He stroked the boy's prick in time with his thrusts, knowing he was nearly there. As he started to spurt, he felt the boy's bollocks tighten and his hand milked the hot spunk from the young prick. Pulling off Harry, he turned him flat on his back, reached between his legs to collect some of his own come, and smeared his hand over the boy's flushed, tear-stained face. He pushed his spunk-covered fingers into the boy's mouth, stroking over the hot tongue, dragging the semen-covered fingers over his teeth, forcing him to taste the combined come. Harry's eyes opened wide, trying to turn his head to escape the forced intimacy, but Severus held him fast, coating his lips with the stuff. Then, he brought his fingers to his own mouth and, staring into the green eyes, licked and sucked them clean. Harry stared, mesmerised.

And Severus slid behind the surface seethe of emotions- horror, disgust, lust, longing, shame - and felt as though his world had suddenly tilted sideways.

Instead of warmth and kindness, he saw blows, harsh words, cruelty. He flinched back from the boy, as if burnt. With growing foreboding, he looked into the green eyes. He recognised the thin child, dressed in clothes the other children laughed at. He was familiar with that longing, the desperate desire to be accepted, and the sure knowledge that that would always denied. He had felt those blows, had been hurt by that rejection.

Pulling himself together, he narrowed his eyes at the boy. There was plenty of evidence of the past hour's activities. Scratches from his fingernails around the boy's nipples, along his sides. Bruises at his hipbones. Suck and bite marks on his neck and shoulders. And the remnants of the boy's orgasm on his stomach, and his own between the boy's thighs. The boy's prick was no longer alabaster white, but pink, with the head peeking rosy through the foreskin.

He couldn't remember ever seeing such a delectable, debauched sight.

He couldn't remember ever being so ashamed.

Damage limitation, that was all that was left to him. Again. A quick stunning spell, and those accusing eyes closed. He had to think, to work fast. He eased the boy back onto a workbench and healed the obvious marks, cleaned him. Quickly dressing him, covering those too-thin limbs - how could he have missed the signs - they were glaring now - was the work of a moment. A mild befuddlement draught, easily introduced, would also take care of the residual taste. He licked his lips thoughtfully, savouring the remains of his stolen, misguided pleasure. Setting up a cauldron with a mixture designed to produce plenty of intoxicating fumes, he propped the boy up onto a stool, arranging the limbs into careless slumber. Stepping back, he considered the tableau. It would have to do.

"Mr. Potter! Sleep on your own time!"

The boy startled awake, eyes wild, but Snape was behind his desk, a stack of essays to hand, quill dipped in the red ink. The boy looked suspiciously up at him, his eyes fogged with the befuddlement draught.

"Do you imagine it is acceptable for you to fall asleep during detention, Mr. Potter?"

"No – no, sir."

"Do you suppose I set detentions so you may have dreams and babble and twitch all over my workbenches?"

"No, sir."

"You will read the chapter on potions bases, and provide me with an essay, two feet, by the end of the week. Clean up and get out."

"Yes, sir."

The boy still sounded puzzled and subdued, but when Severus strode past him to the door to open it, Potter didn't flinch from him, but continued to clear the bench. Picking up his school bag, the boy gave him a confused look, but went without any comment.

Well. He rather thought he'd gotten away with it. And after all, the excitement of successful subterfuge was very similar to other excitements. But Potter would serve any other detentions safely with Filch.


	2. Scales

Scales

No one else seems to notice it, only himself. He sneers at the people surrounding the boy, his _friends. _They don't seem to see it. Are they really so blind? Do they not care? Does the boy himself realise, does he care? Does he even understand what he's missing, what he lacks, what he does, what he needs? Severus watches, observes. The Boy Who Lived, indeed. Have they no idea? Do they not see what they're doing to the boy? He carefully glosses over his own part in the boy's - difficulties. He doesn't remember, Severus tells himself, he can't remember. There has never been any indication, any sign from the boy. Just, the puzzlement on the boy's face when he looks at Severus sometimes. Sometimes, the boy seems lost in gazing at the Potions master. Severus always makes sure to snap something cruel, but not too biting, at the boy to break that gaze, when it happens in class. The return of fierce hatred to the eyes is a relief. He doesn't want those green eyes on him, much too much like Lily's, much too much like ...

No.

He does not go there, even in the long nights in front of the fire, glass of fire whiskey in his hand - just the one, though. No matter how far back he travels in his mind. Always, just the one.

He observes, because that is what he does, what he has always done. He watches others, too. He notes how the boy and the werewolf become friendly. He is careful, bides his time, but marks every friendly gesture, every point where the werewolf steps between the boy and his rightful anger. He notes the rule-breaking - how, as before, the situation teeters, the boy and the wolf thwarting his attempts to protect and guard. The boy starts looking more and more like James again, Lily's eyes almost unseen in the loathed face.

Then, that night in the Shrieking Shack - he can't comprehend the abrupt return of all his old nightmares. It's almost as if his own father had returned, and stalked the dungeons shouting and striking out. He admits to himself that the lines blurred that night. He knows he was lost in the past, drowned in the nightmare of his Hogwarts years. The striking of one image after another on his brain. The Azkaban escapee, as mad and scarred and pared down to hard bone as he remembers the inmates of Azkaban, those weeks he spent in the black reeking fear before Albus testified, and brought him out. Then, the sudden reappearance of the Marauders - his tormentors, torturers, risen anew. The jarring discontinuity of James/Harry appearing as his old self with the others so very changed, with the measured, reasoned tones of Granger sounding so very like -

NO!

And then, suddenly, being outside, with the wolf in his wolf's clothing, and, after all, the children, the students, were _his_ students, so he faced his nightmare down. It only worsened after that, with the Dementor and that incompetent, Fudge - it was his last attempt to make the fool understand. Albus had - massaged - that memory in Fudge, he'd not left Severus vulnerable from that direction, at least. But the prisoner had escaped, and with the threat of a resurgence of the Marauders, Severus removed the wolf from Hogwarts. The boy - well, the boy did not need anyone leading him into more mischief, he was perfectly able to find enough on his own. Although Severus did re-evaluate his judgement of the boy's wizarding potential. If the tales of the Patronus were to be believed, there was more there than was immediately apparent.

The subsequent year, the Tri-Wizard fiasco only proved the boy could attract trouble like a Redcap. Despite Severus' unease, Albus let Moody have a long leash until the very end. And the boy - when he returned from the raising of the Dark Lord, he'd changed. He'd watched from the background as the boy told his tale. He knew, of course. There was no disguising what had happened, his own arm was plain evidence of that. But the tale the boy told, of his duelling and escaping the Dark Lord, and his return clutching the Hufflepuff boy - well, that was a different matter. And the Priori Incantatem - he'd seen, spoken to Lily. Severus' interest sharpened.

He was now to be thrown in to battle, too. Finally some work, some real work. The summer, and his return to the ranks of the Death Eaters made him colder, keener, a finer blade drawn of Damascus steel. The meddling of the Ministry, the Umbridge toad, had him redoubling his watchfulness over the boy. Murtlap essence in plenty available - at least the Granger girl was paying attention - and he watched as the boy retreated into himself. The question was, what would be forged in that assay?

His interest, his attention was rewarded. Dumbledore was correct. A leader, then. Misguided, inattentive, unobservant, foolhardy maybe, but a leader. Of children, for the moment, but of students older than himself, too. The potential, the vision was there. When Severus watched the other teachers, he saw them respond to it. And the tempering of the boy's rashness, his heedless plunging into action, well, that too might have begun with the death of the escapee Marauder.

The boy was obviously brooding on the loss. When Severus saw him come from the Headmaster's office, the boy had changed. No longer a boy, now. Those green eyes slid over him, that morning after the battle in the Ministry, as he waited to speak to Albus. He should not see much of the boy now, he thought, until the next school year. But Albus, in his usual irritating fashion, had requested he keep a close eye on the boy. Explaining that he, Severus, was the last person the boy would wish to see had no effect, as usual. But the boy appeared restless, constantly moving about the castle. He also seemed to be working on a very short fuse, if the incident with Malfoy and his henchmen was any indication. Severus observed, but stayed concealed unless necessary.

So the night, only the latest in a series of midnight excursions, that the boy appears on the staircase leading from the entrance hall to the dungeons, Severus feels he has to speak.

"Going somewhere, Mr. Potter?"

The boy whirls, wand at the ready, but does not seem to be alarmed, or even surprised.

"Professor." It was said with the slightest edge of insolence. "I couldn't sleep. I was taking a walk."

"To the dungeons?"

There is a reckless light dancing in the boy's eyes.

"No one else is awake."

"Yes."

Sweeping his arm to indicate the boy precede him, he stalks down to the classroom. As he turns from closing the door, the boy is leaning against a desk, glowering darkly.

"Are you happy now?" the boy spits venomously.

"Happy?"

"Now Sirius is dead. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"I wanted that when I was nineteen."

"Oh, yeah, and you were the best of friends later?"

"I was never fond of the man, as you were. That does not mean I wished him dead."

"Right. So you just had to keep digging at him, telling him he was useless and a coward -"

"What I said hardly would have affected him. We were never friends."

"You didn't have to push him so much -"

"Potter! This isn't some schoolboy game! You should understand that, at least!"

His temper is fraying, the boy always seems to find the words or tone to goad him.

But Potter launches into an incoherent attack.

"You - you could have - bastard - why didn't you - your fault -"

And he flies at Severus, fists flailing, kicking, shouting. Severus knows this close grappling, he is skilled at evading any hurt, but allows Potter to burn off his aggression with blows to less vulnerable areas.

"Damn you, you could have saved him, you didn't try, you let him die ..."

The flailing is growing weaker, and he looks close to tears.

Severus sneers, "And no one else, of course, had any part in this?"

But the boy breaks, and with an inchoate cry, launches himself onto Severus.

The full weight of Potter, although not great, is enough to send the Potions master stumbling, the boy clinging, holding on as they both fall to the stone floor. Grappling with the boy is not what he desires, but the boy's face is wet with tears, and although he is still muttering, "Your fault - your fault ..", there is also a pressing, a grinding that has nothing to do with the accusation about the dead Marauder. He closes his eyes, tightens his mouth, and keeps his arms around the boy as he sobs and grinds his way to his release, only shifting to allow the boy access to his entirely innocuous hip. Perhaps, he thinks, in the few moments before the boy fully lets go and weeps, perhaps this may be a feather or a grain of sand in the other side of the scales?

At last, the boy lifts his head from Severus' now rather damp shoulder.

"Oh, God, I - I'm sorry, Sir -"

"Shut up, Potter."

He wearily climbs to his feet, hauling the boy up, too.

"These things happen. It had better not happen again, but - "

He glares at Potter sourly, and with a small wand movement, cleans the boy.

"I do not want to hear of this from you or anyone else again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Go now. Get out."

"Yes, sir."

And the boy flees, a black shadow sliding out the door. He hopes he has not damned himself to more of the boy's irritating attention, more of the watching, but he fears his hope is futile. The boy's wide eyes, shocked and startled, puzzled, and somehow solemn, tell him this will not be forgotten. There is a dreadful symmetry about the situation, and Severus casts up a not-quite prayer that the gods might, perhaps, find other sport. He folds his damp robe carefully and lays it by his pillow that night.


	3. Brancaster

Brancaster

He always seems to remember Snape as an uneasy black shape against the white of snow at Hogwarts. He doesn't seem to have any memories of him outdoors in spring, with the new green of leaves and the Quidditch pitch reviving from the winter's games. Nor does he remember Snape against the blue skies and browned grass of summer. It's either shades of grey from the dungeons and cold stone of the interior of Hogwarts, or the black and white of winter.

That, he thinks, is why the memory of Snape on the dusty grey floor of the Shrieking Shack is so vivid. True, the room in the shack is almost monochrome grey, with Snape's black clothes and white face, but that sharp, disturbing gout of red, the pool of blood on the greyed old floorboards, the gaping gash in Snape's white throat seem almost indecently colourful.

The image sits behind his eyelids, and he goes back to the Shack, to the room, as soon as he has a moment.

There is nothing there.

No body, stiffened in death or writhing in agony.

No blood on the floorboards.

Not even a disturbance of the dust to show that anything has happened in this room.

He looks in the other rooms, even though he knows, _knows_ it was this room.

Nothing. No sign, no trace.

Everyone is too busy, too preoccupied, in those first few Voldemort-free days, to take any notice of his questions.

And then, there isn't anyone to ask.

Kingsley and the other Ministry people go back to London, the teachers go back to teaching, the students go back to studying. No one wants to listen to him worrying about the missing body of a Death Eater.

He remembers he left the pensieve out in Dumbledore's office with Snape's memories in it, races up there, but there is no pensieve.

He asks Dumbledore's portrait, "Where did the pensieve go?"

"Oh, it's in safe hands, dear boy," Dumbledore answers.

"But the memories - I didn't mean to leave them here."

Dumbledore's portrait just smiles at Harry.

He feels angry, but then, he feels angry such a lot of the time, these days.

Either that, or dead inside.

No one else seems to feel as he does.

They're all happy, rejoicing.

He thinks he should feel happy that they're happy, but somehow, that's not happy enough.

Ron and Hermione are spending most of their time together now. They were the closest to it all, but they didn't know everything, they didn't experience all he did.

Ginny doesn't know.

Yes, she had her run-in with Tom Riddle, but she doesn't remember much of it, or so she claims.

She certainly doesn't want to talk about it with Harry, after the second time he steers the conversation around to it.

He feels like he's in a sort of limbo.

He'd sort of hoped, after Voldemort was gone, that he'd become normal, whatever that might be. Or that he would have no need to worry about it. But he's still alive, no one else is interested, and he doesn't know what to do.

Kingsley talks him into joining the Aurors, and it seems a good idea at of the action and adrenaline he's gotten used to. It doesn't really work out like that, but he suspects it's better than anything else he might try. He's seeing Ginny, and everything is moving along. He spends several nights a week in London, though, on his own. He insists on this, even though Ginny would like to make it all official and permanent and full-time. Those nights, where he doesn't sleep much, but sits staring at the blank wall in a small impersonal room, where his thoughts churn round, where sometimes he gets drunk alone on firewhisky; those nights sometimes feel like the only real time in a life that feels out of his control.

He sometimes feels as though someone else is living his life.

Sometimes, it's as though he's completely disconnected with reality, that no one around him is real.

He remembers Snape, those nights.

He shouts, throws things against the wall.

Sometimes he cries.

After his probationary year as an Auror, he starts using the job and his contacts. He puts out feelers, asks questions. He looks in the records, pretending he's doing research on Death Eaters who escaped justice. Everyone just lets him get on with it. He does his job, but he suspects that even if he didn't, even if he just sat at his desk every day, or didn't even turn up to the office, he'd still get paid, he'd still be an Auror. He does his job, but he rarely partners with anyone. He prefers to work alone, and he's good at what he does. Gradually, though, there are fewer supporters of Voldemort out there to round up, less instances of Unforgiveables, more mundane, small-time lawbreaking. He marries Ginny, in a big wedding reported at length in the Daily Prophet and the Quibbler. Ginny and Molly make all the arrangements, and Harry just invites one or two people from the office. He feels unreality wash over him throughout the day, which feels pastel and glockenspiel and spiderweb. When he and Ginny disapparate to Paris, he can't hold his focus and she has to get him there.

Without her, he'd be splinched, parts of him raining down in a swathe from Ottery St. Catchpole across the channel to the French capital.

He's not sure that that might not have been a better fate for him, but Ginny doesn't deserve his inattention, and he struggles, and succeeds in being more or less there for her. She knows it's not right, but pretends; they both agree to pretend. Sharing the bed, sharing their bodies is soft and insubstantial as gossamer. It does calm him, and he is grateful that she allows him time and the patience to find some way they can be together without him flying apart. She holds him at night, until he has to rise and stare out of the window, or pace the streets. She lets him go, and does not question him too closely when he comes back. He is grateful to her for being calm and whole enough that he doesn't have to be.

He visits the French Aurors, making the connection through a friend of Fleur's, and looks through their records. Ginny does not complain that he seems to be working on their honeymoon. He thinks she's relieved he doesn't spend his whole time there. He finds some old-school Aurors who are more receptive to his questions than the young ones, Aurors that remind him of Moody. They promise to alert him if any information comes their way. He convinces Ginny to take a detour to Bulgaria on the way home, and meets with Krum in Sofia while Ginny is happily shopping. This, too, is a successful meeting, and he now feels he has spread his net as wide as he can.

He's still not sure why he is doing this, or what he'd do with any information he might receive.

He's not even sure if he wants, or expects any information.

It's almost as if Snape is a maggot who has burrowed into his brain, and is eating it from the inside out.

He thinks that might not be more painful.

He and Ginny settle into life after war as well as can be expected. He continues to spend one or two nights a week in London, staring at blank walls. The one time Ginny tries to stop him, he spends the night pacing the house, moving furniture, casting defensive spells. The house is in chaos the next morning, they have a blazing row, and Ginny sends him off to London to work off his – energy away from her. Soon after that, she discovers she is pregnant, and most assuredly doesn't want him around when he is in one of his moods. So he resumes his London sojourns.

Ginny spends more time at the Burrow the closer the baby is to its due date; Harry goes, too, but needs to leave if too many people gather. Ron and Hermione spend lots of time there, too, along with George.

Occasionally, he and George go for long walks, but they make each other sad. After the boy is born, Ginny depends on her mother more. Harry loves James, and feels more connected, but Ginny doesn't leave them alone for too long after the time she finds him telling James in great detail about Voldemort's horcruxes.

She tells him, "He may only be a baby, but no one knows how much babies remember. He doesn't need to know such things."

The information comes by owl one evening after one of their non-rows. Ginny has been telling him, in no uncertain terms, exactly where he is failing, as a father and a husband. He has never known how to respond, so he either goes quiet or agrees. He knows he's not good at sharing his feelings, he knows he's not warm or easy to be with.

The owl drops the message in his hand and flies off, not waiting for a treat.

Harry opens the note, and is out of the door in a minute, barely pausing to tell Ginny,"Don't wait up, I may be a couple of days on this one."

Outside, he looks at the note more closely.

From one of his Ministry contacts, it merely states, "Target may be Brancaster area".

He apparates to the coast, not even thinking of his next move.

He certainly doesn't consider why he doesn't wait till the morning.

The wind is coming in off the North Sea, a solid presence in the landscape. The rest is a vast mudflat, silvery grey under a silvery grey sky. There is the silvery grey edge of a sea somewhere far out under the wind and sky, but this is more a suspicion than the evidence of his eyes. He casts a warming charm on himself and stands, breathing in the wild air. His ears adjust, and he distinguishes the calls of thousands of seabirds, the creak of wood being forced to yield to the will of the wind, the susurration of grasses bent double by the weight of air, the sound of water riffling through the sand and mud.

He begins to walk. It doesn't seem to matter which way, and he allows the wind and land to dictate his steps.

As the light slowly rises, he thinks he sees a shape, a darker area in the night. He hopes for the dawn, having had a fill of this raw border between land and sea, but after a while, sees the edge of the moon rising to swim the waves of clouds in the sky. He forges his way through the marsh towards the smudge of darkness in the light. In this wide, flat, empty wind-scoured plain, he realises there is a tower rising, pointing skywards. This must be his goal, there can be nothing else so unearthly, so unbending in this land.

The black finger of stone cuts the rising moon in half.

To either side, silvergold reflections cast a broad field; he follows the straight black path to the tower. As he nears, he senses, more than sees, someone watching him from close on the structure. Under the lee of the stones, the darkness becomes inky; he loses sight of the moonlight, of the curve of the earth and sea, of the constant batter of water and wind. He sees the man move and his wand goes up, a moment too late. He's held against the wall, the bone of an arm pressed against his windpipe, the other arm holding a wand under his chin.

The sneer on the face thrust into his is unmistakeable.

His eyes widen, breath cut off, heart stopping.

He finds himself on his hands and knees on the damp ground, wandless.

"Go away. You are not welcome," the voice grinds out, harsh, rasping.

"No."

He looks up, up the long thin legs, up the long emaciated body, to the face, all harsh angles and darkness beneath the long whipping strings of hair.

He stays on his knees.

He thinks the eyes narrow, but he can't see.

"No."

There is nothing else he can think of to say.

"Why?"

He considers the question, knowing his life hangs on this moment.

"You want me. I want you."

"You do not know what I want. You do not know what you want. You do not know what you ask for."

"I know better than I did when I was twelve. I know better than I did at fifteen."

He is suddenly lifted, and his back ground against the sharp stones as the long dark body presses him to the wall.

"You want this again? Are you really so self-destructive?"

"Yes."

His mind going black and thoughtless, directionless, he grasps the long flailing hair in his fists and pulls the face to his mouth. The man jerks away, then attacks his mouth with lips and teeth and tongue, bruising his lips, raising fire in his belly.

"You are a fool to come here."

"Yes."

The tower is dank and dark, like a dungeon in the sky. The moon scud lights the room at the top fitfully with silver. This is so far away from making love that he has no guilt for Ginny. This isn't even anything that might be called sex.

Snape doesn't speak, looks half-mad. Harry supposes living here, on the edge of the world, he may very well be mad. His eyes absorb the angular figure as he's bound to a stone buttress. The man hardly looks at him as he sweeps aside his robe, slashes his wand to tear Harry's jeans and boxers.

Straight in, no preparation.

The man is rock hard, an iron projection from the cold groin pressed against his flinching buttocks. He is driven against the rough rock by the gristly, gnarled cock, his own cock finding altogether too much friction on the stone. He comes anyways, feeling most of the skin has been left behind as sacrifice to the keeper of this tower. His ass is leaking come, his hands, thighs, prick bloody. Snape releases him from the buttress and squints at him in the half-darkness.

"What did you come here for?"

"I came for what you give me."

"You are a fool."

The man turns away, goes to lay himself on a cot by the wall.

"But then, you always were a fool."

Harry stands, staggers over to the cot, slumps down beside it. After some minutes, he feels the bony fingers move through his hair to scrape at his scalp.

"Don't be a complete fool, Potter. Get up here," the voice growls.

And Harry joins the man in the narrow bed, both of them still in their damp clothes beneath a damp, salt-rough blanket.

It is one of the most restful nights Harry has known since Voldemort's fall.


	4. The Hanged Man

The sun is weak and watery on the stone wall when Harry's eyes open the next morning.

He is alone in the narrow cot, and when he moves tentatively, he finds his scrapes from the night before have been healed.

But he is not sure whether the whole thing was some dream, some heated fantasy.

Getting up, finding his wand on the ledge of the window, he makes his way to the stair descending from a corner of the room, following a smell of food, he thinks.

The floor below holds the arch of a stone fireplace spanning nearly a third of the curved wall into which is set an old black range. The smell comes from a pot Snape is stirring, which makes thick wet plopping sounds. The smell is not nearly as appetising close to, but Harry realises he has not eaten for some time.

"Still here?" Snape growls without turning round.

Harry chooses to interpret this as an invitation, collects two heavy earthenware bowls from a shelf and brings them to the stiff-backed man.

A portion of grey stuff is dropped into each bowl and Harry takes them to the rough table.

Snape pushes a spoon towards him and begins to shovel the food into his mouth with the wooden stirring spoon.

Harry takes a mouthful and nearly spits it out.

Swallowing, he says, "Christ, what is this stuff?"

Snape finishes his mouthful, says tersely, "Carbohydrate. Protein," and continues eating.

Harry manages to swallow a few more spoonsful, surreptitiously glancing round.

"You will not find anything here."

Snape picks up both bowls, returns Harry's leftovers to the pot.

"Why?" Harry asks Snape's back. "Why are you here? What are you doing here?"

Snape's gaze rests on him from the corners of his eyes, a strange sly look.

"You want to know why I'm here?"

"Yes."

"You want to know what I am doing?"

"I do. It took me years to find you."

"Maybe I wasn't to be found. Maybe you weren't meant to find me."

"Maybe. But I have found you now."

Harry sees Snape look at him again, that strange quick glance, almost as if Snape's expecting him to vanish, as though Snape doesn't believe he's really there.

Harry feels there's something very odd going on. He wondered last night if Snape was mad; now he thinks that's true, but there is more. All his Auror instincts, all his senses, his gut, everything from his schoolyears, all his life experience is telling him something here is very wrong.

He follows Snape outside to the mudflats, where the man walks in a strange, long-legged, disjointed stride, and barks, "Stay in my steps, Potter, if you don't wish to be sucked into the mud."

Harry picks up a lump of driftwood, tosses it onto the mud to the side of Snape's track, where it sets a whole area of marsh aquiver, and sinks below the surface.

"You would disappear into that in a minute or two, and I might not pull you out, if you continue to throw away perfectly good fuel."

"Sorry," Harry mutters.

They spend a couple of hours digging for shellfish in the mud far out under that wide sky.

Snape takes a different route back, and Harry's beginning to spot the little twigs marking the safe path.

There are traps hidden in tussocks, and Snape checks and resets each one, seemingly unconcerned there is nothing in any of them.

Harry watches his red raw cold hands working the woven reed traps, patient, unflinching in the freezing wind.

"This is how you live?"

"This is how I live."

They have bowls of the porridge again, and Harry realises the odd taste is from the shellfish they gathered, which are chopped into it. There is some green stuff, bitter and acid, that Snape collected at the edges of the high-water mark.

Harry finds the food more palatable now that he understands, and eats simply to fill his belly.

"May I get some more oatmeal for you? I am eating your rations."

Snape gives him a swift glance from under his brows, over the edge of the bowl.

"You are staying?"

"Yes."

As the light fades, Snape tidies the remains of their supper and takes a net down from where it hangs on a nail.

He sits, carefully running the knots and line through his fingers, checking each bit of the construction before working the outer edge through his hands.

It's fully dark now, and Harry understands this is all done by touch; Snape has performed this action so many times it is automatic.

Finished, Snape gives him that odd, sly look again as he stands.

"There is no light. I sleep now."

Harry follows him up the stairs to the narrow bed.

When they lie down, Harry finds Snape is iron-hard again, and rather than risk another encounter with the buttress, pushes him down in the bed, finds the fastenings in his threadbare robe, exposes his groin and puts his mouth to him. Again, Snape is abrupt and holds his head, thrusting into Harry's mouth in short stabbing movements, finishing by driving his cock fully down Harry's throat, convulsing briefly, then rolling away.

Harry considers the two encounters and the day as he moves his hand languidly on himself. He'd previously imagined Snape had some finesse, some idea of reciprocity. This Snape, so very disconnected and strange, is beyond anything he has any experience of. Perhaps it was always so, and he'd never realised? Harry knows he's not good at understanding people. He catches the come in his hand, and quick as a snake, his hand is captured and drawn up to Snape's mouth. His hand is licked and sucked clean. Taken aback, Harry remembers the first of his encounters with Snape, and shivers. The shiver appears to trigger something in Snape; he is gathered to the man, his hair petted, and with a sort of soothing humming, he is lulled to sleep.

The next morning, Harry wakes with the dawn to an empty bed. Going out to relieve himself, he realises he has not seen Snape use a wand since he's been there.

Snape returns with the net and a duck, and plucks it after breakfast, sitting outside the door in a fine drizzle. He seems impervious to his surroundings, but Harry casts a shield charm over them both. He is given another odd, sidelong glance.

"You don't use magic?"

"Rarely."

"Why?"

"I don't dare any longer."

"Why?"

"It gets - absorbed. It feeds the Beast."

"What do you mean? What beast?"

Harry glances around, as though a Hippogriff or dragon might appear, but there is nothing but themselves, the tower and the saltmarsh in the rain. He really hopes Snape is not talking about the duck.

"The Beast. The reason I am here."

"I don't understand."

Snape stares at him for a long moment, then mutters, "Must it really be you?"

He stands with a grimace, saying "If it must be, then I had best show you."

He carries the plucked and drawn bird in, with Harry following.

Snape hangs the net, and prepares the duck for roasting, and Harry is confused again.

"Were you going to show me something?"

"I will. You still have not learnt patience, I see."

Having set his kitchen to rights, Snape stares at Harry, considering; finally, he stands, makes his way to the stairs.

"Well? I thought you wanted to know why I was here. I thought you wanted to know about the Beast."

Harry jumps up to follow the man.

Snape reaches the base of the tower, stops to give Harry a sly glance, puts his finger to his lips, then lays his hand on the cold stone opposite the door.

Harry looks, frowning, as Snape presses his palm firmly to the flint, then twists.

As Harry moves to stop him, Snape draws his hand away, palm bloody, stone bloody, a gap starting to show by the red smear.

Harry follows Snape downwards, putting his hand to the rough wall to guide his feet on the curved stone steps, feeling a bit queasy.

His heartbeat seems loud, fast; in the gathering darkness, he draws his wand, the 'Lumos' on his lips.

Snape growls, "No."

Harry keeps his wand in his hand, the back of his neck, his scar prickling in warning, stomach churning.

He knows Snape has always protected him, has saved him many times; no matter how suspicious he has ever been of the man, Snape has never put him in harm's way.

But this Snape - he seems so - mad, disconnected; Harry does not know him.

They reach the bottom of the stairs, where a low, greenish light seems to come from the walls themselves, a sickly phosphorescent luminescence.

Snape curses softly, bony fingers seizing Harry's wrist.

He sees, numbly, that his knuckles have been scraped in the descent, and Snape is staring at them, displeased at the sight.

"You may be staying longer than you expected, or wished to, Potter."

The room at the base of the stairs, dank, smelling of long-dead things below the sea, seems to be breathing, the walls moving in the shimmering half-light.

Snape moves to the dim passage leading off the room, dragging Harry by the wrist, placing his own bloody palm to the wall, then pressing Harry's bloody knuckles beside it.

Snape sets off down the passage, still pulling Harry by the wrist.

Harry is feeling sick, dizzy, his head throbbing.

It's almost as if Voldemort is slithering in his brain again, and suddenly, he is very afraid of what is at the end of this tunnel, he knows, suddenly, how Snape must have felt, in the tunnel of the Shrieking Shack.

Snape permits him to pull them to a stop, hissing, "You feel it? You know what is here?"

The mad black eyes nail him to the side of the passage; he looks almost gleeful.

"What - what are you doing? Why are you here? Why are we here?"

Snape closes on him, crazy eyes fixed as he peers into Harry's mind, his body, warm and cold, presses Harry into the crumbling wall.

"This is why I am here. This is what Dumbledore left me. This is my legacy."

Snape bares his teeth in an agonised twist that Harry thinks might be a grin.

"I am Gatekeeper of this place. I am the guardian, Keeper of Grounds and Keys. I am the Hound that watches the Gate, the Warder of Hell. And now, you have come. You have left your blood on the wall, on the flank of the Beast."

Snape laughs, a harsh, hysterical noise.

"You will remain here, and guard, and ward with me. There is no leaving now, there is no escape. Can you hear it? Can you feel the Beast turn in its sleep?"

Harry, lost in the disconnected threads of Snape's thoughts, feels the dread and fear churn in his stomach, sees the yellow-green glow flickering and wavering at the end of the tunnel, and feels his life draining in the terror of Snape's mind.

He fills his lungs with the dank, stinking air, smells the faintest thread of mint and astringent cleavers providing him a lifeline, and he knows that is Snape's smell, and it cuts through the miasma of fear; he is with Snape.

He is with Snape; Snape has always kept him safe; Snape has never betrayed him.

He grasps Snape's arms above the elbow, holding the man, pulling himself back into himself, away from the crazed black eyes.

When he is able, he pulls the man to him in a rough, desperate embrace, whispering "We will do this. We can do this. It's not you alone anymore. We will do this."

Snape laughs again, a harsh sound like a sob, and clings to him.

"I am mad. You are not here. I will never be able to do this."

"I am here. We will do this together. Dumbledore did not leave you this to do alone. I did not know. It took me a long time to get here, but I am here now. We will do it together. You are not alone anymore."

Snape stares at him in the half-light, uncertain.

"You're here? You're truly here?"

"I am."

"What are you doing? Are you mad? Why did you come? Gryffindor fool! Why are you down here?" The black eyes are wide with fear and despair.

"You brought me here."

Snape clutches his head in despair, turning away, wailing "No-o-o-o!"

Harry grabs him by the arm again, pulling him back to himself, afraid Snape has not yet understood he is not alone.

The mad black eyes frantically search his, Snape's face so close, each word explodes in a small puff of breath on his skin.

"You shouldn't be here. The Beast will drag you in, like it has done me. You shouldn't have come here. I can't protect you - I can't shield you here - ah, God, what possessed you?"

"I came for you. Tell me. It's dragged you in? Tell me. We will fight it together. Not alone. Not alone anymore."

"You shouldn't have come. This wasn't for you. I wish you hadn't come."

"I'm here now. I'm not leaving."

That cracked laugh again - "No. You're not leaving - you can't, now. It's got you, it's got the taste of your blood now, and you can never leave. Why? Why did you have to find me? Why did you have to stay?" The last leaves Snape's throat in a wail.

"Tell me about it. We may be able to work something out together. How long have you been here?"

He steers Snape back down the passage, up the winding stair to the kitchen. He'd thought Snape's irrationality had increased for every moment they'd spent in the tunnel; he knew his own reason was shifting into the desperate thought patterns of the nights he'd spent in isolation.

He sits Snape down, finds tea and a pot, brews up.

Black tea with sugar, hot and strong, brings some colour back into Snape's face.

"Tell me about it," Harry murmurs, soothingly.

"I came here directly from the Shrieking Shack. This was where I was meant to come. Dumbledore - Dumbledore took me here two weeks before. Before the Tower. He explained - he'd been guarding this place," Snape mutters into the mug, his hands wrapped tightly around it.

"You see? He didn't have to stay here the whole time. You don't have to. I won't have to. We'll work out what we need to do. What did he tell you?"

Snape looks at him, eyes bleary.

"Don't patronise me. You felt it, down there, didn't you? Or are you still as dim as you used to be?"

Harry sees there are tremors shaking Snape, and that worries him like the tower, like the tunnel, like Snape's insanity had not. He's never seen Snape afraid before.

"Come on. You're going upstairs. I'll get us some provisions - we will sort this thing out."

He gets the man upstairs and into the bed, sits with him until he's fallen asleep.

He disentangles his hand from the tight grip Snape has on it, and disapparates to his home.


	5. Alone Again Or

Alone Again Or

Harry knows something is wrong as soon as he steps through the door.

There is a silence, an accumulation of dust in the air that speaks of abandoned rooms, hurried departures, deserted places.

"Ginny?" he calls out, not really expecting an answer. He finds the note on the kitchen table, weighed down with the ring he'd slid on her finger the day they'd married.

He sits down heavily, his mind going blank.

After awhile, he thinks to open the letter, reads it numbly, not understanding a word even after three, four readings.

He sees the date is some days ago, and gets up, Floos to the Burrow.

Molly Weasley is in the kitchen when he stumbles out onto the hearthrug, and she gives him a worried look.

"Where's Ginny? I think I need to talk to her?"

"Sit down, Harry. Cup of tea?"

"No, thanks, I think I'd better .."

"Sit down. I need to speak to you."

He knows that tone of voice, and sits down. Molly passes him a mug, sits holding one herself.

"Ginny hasn't told us everything that happened between you two, but she's been here quite a bit since you've been married."

"Yes, I know."

"Why do you think that is?"

"I - I'm not sure."

Molly gazes at him for a long moment.

"Why did you get married?"

"Because Ginny wanted to."

"Did you think about - do you know what you wanted from your marriage?"

"Um - I don't know. To be normal, I guess."

"Harry, dear, how did you think that was going to happen?"

"I don't know; I guess I thought it just would ..."

The questions don't make a great deal of sense to him, and he feels a bit lost in the conversation.

"I guess I don't really know how this all works - I sort of thought, you know, that you got married, and had kids, and it all just sort of happened."

He looks beseechingly at Molly, not quite sure what she's asking, what she's trying to find out. She takes his hand across the table, biting her lip.

"Oh, Harry. It takes effort to make a marriage work. It very rarely just happens. I should have realised - we should have thought - I'm very sorry, but Ginny wants some time apart from you. She doesn't want to see you at the moment - "

Harry grimaces down into his mug, and Molly takes both his hands.

"I'll get Arthur to drop by and speak to you. Will you be home tonight?"

When Harry nods, she squeezes his hands.

"Tonight, then. Would you like to see James?"

He nods again.

Holding his son, sitting in the warmth of the kitchen, he thinks, this. This is what he wanted. This welcoming, calm, relaxed place. Where he could come and let his soul be warmed. He absorbs the sensation, his cheek resting on his sleeping son's head, arms protective around the precious small body.

Arthur comes over, and they talk.

He understands, somewhere that evening, that he is lucky to have these people, this family so willing to give him their regard and understanding.

Arthur finally says, as he's leaving, "It was too soon. I wish I'd been able to convince Ginny to wait; you've had too much to deal with."

"I don't know if that would have made any difference. I don't know how to be, how to do this. I love James. I think I love Ginny, but I don't know if I can be what she wants me to be. I don't know if I'm that person, or ever will be."

"I know," says Arthur, his hands heavy on Harry's shoulders, "Just - let it be for a bit. Ginny doesn't know either. She knows how her brothers are, she knows how Molly and I are. But that is nothing like the way you grew up. You may not be able to do this - I'm not saying you won't, but maybe - "

"I don't know. I know I haven't been what she wants, but I don't know what it is she wants. And I don't know what I want, either. I do know that I want to be part of my son's life, though."

"You will be. You are part of our family. When you are part of a family, that doesn't stop, you know. People have difficulties, and they may not get on all the time, but they are still part of that family. That doesn't stop."

Ron and Hermione come through the Floo the next day, and he tells them a bit about Snape's situation after swearing them to secrecy. The dressing down about Ginny he gets from Ron is easier to take than the searching questions from Hermione, but neither of them seem to understand about Snape. Harry supposes that isn't strange, as he doesn't understand either, so probably isn't explaining it well. Hermione, however, suggests he talk to Bill, and also suggests he needs to decide if he wants to make his marriage work or not. Hermione agrees to speak to Ginny, to arrange a meeting between them. When they're gone, Harry floos to Shell Cottage.

Bill sits him down at the kitchen table, makes tea and hears him out.

"Dumbledore assigned him to the place?"

"That's what Snape told me."

"And he hasn't said what he's guarding?"

"The Beast - that's what he called it. We went underground. It felt - malevolent. My scar hurt, not as bad as with Voldemort, but it definitely hurt. Snape was afraid."

Bill draws in a long breath, looking worried.

"That - I've never seen Snape afraid. Through all the time he was spying on Death Eaters, I never once saw him afraid."

They stare at each other across the table.

"I'll get some books together. Are you going back there now?"

Harry nods.

They go up to the study, where Bill has filled two walls with shelves of books. A few hours later, he has a vague idea of the sort of thing he needs to know about about the Beast.

"Owl me anything more you might find out. And come back in four days - I should have some more information by then."

Harry's almost to the door when Bill says, "And Ginny? James?"

Harry looks back at him, "I don't know. I just don't know. I'm not easy to be with. Ginny always made allowances for me -."

"It's never one sided, you know. It's never just black and white. Think about it."

Harry nods, and goes.

His house feels very empty and strange; he doesn't feel like he's spent two years living here. The hall he moves down has photographs on the walls, but he can't seem to recognise the people in them. He looks in the sitting room, but it isn't welcoming, the chairs and sofa seem to crouch in the half-darkness, ready to trap any passing body, and he turns away, shuddering. The kitchen is cold. He thinks back to the kitchen in the Burrow, the one in Shell Cottage, and he can't see why this is different. Making himself a cup of tea, he sits at the table, but there is no feeling of peace.

He goes from room to room in the house; the only place he feels any kind of warmth is in his son's room, that he and Ginny spent days doing up. Painting the walls a cheery yellow, finding a light green rug, installing the old cot Arthur had hauled down from the attic of the Burrow and painted, Ginny and he had sat at the kitchen table and made light, floaty curtains and a lampshade that was a mobile of dragons and hippogriffs. He brings the blanket from the cot to his face, inhaling deeply, filling his senses with the memory of James. He curls up on the green rug, holding the blanket to his damp cheek, and sleeps.

Later, once he's gotten together all the food in the place and repacked the books from Bill, a duvet, pillows and firewhiskey, he Apparates to the base of the tower, and again senses something is wrong when he opens the door. It is not the presence of dust; there is an amplitude and was before he left. The silence, too, is no different. Rather, there is a sort of satisfied hum about the place. A satiety, a relaxation which certainly wasn't there before.

Harry runs up the curving stairs to the kitchen, sees the pots are all clean and hung in a neat row above the range. No bubbling porridge waiting on the hob.

The net is on its hook; Snape's threadbare cloak isn't.

He goes up to the bedroom, just to make sure, but the narrow cot is tidy, the room empty. On the table in the kitchen, Harry sees with a feeling of déjà vu, there is a note under a smooth black pebble. He sits abruptly, feeling as if his knees have turned to jelly, and stretches his hand to the parchment.

The scrawl is familiar, perhaps more straggly than he remembers from his potions essays, but spiky and spattered where the quill has dug into the surface.

_**No more hope. Beware the Beast. I have gone to feed his hunger. I pray it is quick.**_

Harry finds he has crumpled the parchment when he looks at his hand.


End file.
